Intruded Thoughts
by SleepSprinkles
Summary: As Sherlock and John spend more time together Sherlock finds a certain someone invading his thoughts, making his day to day doings more difficult to perform. But when a case is introduced and Sherlock takes it up, John finds himself confused, and his feelings taking a turn that he could not imagine. JohnLock
1. Water

Author's Note: Something that I had contemplated writing. Thanks to my friend Twitchy T-Rex for the helping in revising the whole thing and smoothing out the last bit.

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Sherlock, with his hands wrapping around John just under his arms, heaved him to the surface. The water was cold, and Sherlock's clothes, John's clothes, and John himself were weighing Sherlock down. Sherlock extended an arm out, perpendicular to the shore, and scooped the water towards him in attempt to pull him and John in.

The water was freezing. It stung Sherlock's bare fingers. It made his limbs perform slower. He kept his eyes on the shore, occasionally glancing at John. Despite water crashing into his face and occasionally creeping higher and lower (with due respect to there being waves), Sherlock could make out observers from the shore, panicking, running, shouting.

The man who had wrestled John was swimming in the opposite direction, but authorities were already heading into the water to fetch him. Sherlock glanced more and more at John's face. It was pale. His head bobbed to Sherlock's motion as he swam over the waves. Sherlock would have to pull John up higher and higher to avoid his head from going under from time to time. As he struggled to swim, and only became more aware of John's unconsciousness, Sherlock began to feel fear creep up on him. Was John okay? Sherlock felt his heart palpitate at the thought of John struggling to get out of the water. What was Sherlock thinking? John couldn't even swim.

As Sherlock felt his feet hit the sand under him, he stood up, and carried John in his arms. People ran out into the water. Sherlock stumbled, and dropped John in the water. As the observers approached, Sherlock shouted at them to stand back. He grabbed John under his arms once again and dragged him onto the dry sand.

Sherlock let go his hold on John's arms. He quickly knelt next to John as his body gently collapsed on the sand, collecting the tiny particles on his clothing and back. Sherlock reached for the buttons on John's shirt, but instead of carefully unbuttoning he tore the shirt open, destroying a few of the buttons with the vicious pull. He felt John's face with his hand. It was cold. He turned his head to the side and listened for breathing.

"Is he breathing?" An exasperated bystander asked.

The sounds and voices of all the bystanders became a quiet drone as Sherlock began to worry more and more about John. Sherlock interlaced his fingers and placed his hands over the center of John's bare chest and began to pump. He stared at John while pumping, hoping to see any sign of consciousness. After 30 times of pumping, Sherlock carefully tilted John's head up, pinched his noise, and covered his mouth with his. He blew. Seeing John's chest rise was a success of knowing the rescue breath had at least worked. Sherlock began to give compressions again. A firm hand grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. He ignored it, and continued with the compressions.

"We are here to take over, you may step away," a paramedic said, hoping to get through to Sherlock. However, Sherlock continued to ignore them. "Sir, please step away!" The paramedic shouted.

"No. This is my friend," Sherlock said in between pumps. Before the next set of 30 compressions was complete, John coughed, and water dripped out of the corner of his mouth. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders. "John!" He shouted. "John can you hear me?" The paramedic grabbed both of Sherlock's shoulders and yanked him away from John, who began to cough and wheeze profusely. Paramedics surrounded John. John opened his eyes. They were glazed over, and scanned over all the faces, but John's eyes stopped when they met Sherlock's. He moved his mouth, but no sound came out. "Sher-lock." His lips moved. Sherlock lunged towards John, but the paramedics held him back. "Please just tell me that he will be okay," Sherlock begged, feeling pathetic and wrong at the strong emotion in his voice.

He stared as John was carried away.

Sherlock sat in a chair in his cozy and cluttered living room of 221B Baker Street. He had the tips of his fingers touching, his thumbs slightly under his lip. He was worried. Constantly thinking.

John.

John.

The only friend that mattered. The only one he had, for that matter. He stood up, slowly trudging over to the window. He parted the curtains slightly with his fingers, gazing outside. It was all painted a bleak gray smudge. The air was humid and windy. No rain, however. He let go of the curtain and headed over to the couch. He first sat down, and then turned himself to lie down. John constantly invaded his mind, though it didn't bother him. He was just always there. His eyes slowly closed as he drifted off to sleep.

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A/N: Update soon. Thank you for reading the first installation.


	2. Purple Shirt

A/N: Hey, thanks for reading this so far. I know it may start out slow, but in my history of writing for FanFiction I've been known to rush stories quite a bit. So years later I'm hoping my skills have improved. Would love to give another shout out to Twitchy T-Rex for being the best editor and coolest person ever. Thanks everyone for reading this. Review to let me (and Twitchy) to tell us how you like it, or just keep reading and don't review. It's fine either way, haha.

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Sherlock paced the corridor. The walls were black, the floor a dark cherry oak, and doors lined the wall with little separation between each other. He was waiting for something. An answer, a person, an event; he wasn't sure. He just paced. He couldn't understand why he was pacing, and Sherlock wasn't one to do something without reason. After growing agitated with impatience, Sherlock threw himself at one of the doors and pounded on it. He ordered that the person inside open the door. "Sherlock?" A quiet voice asked, it sounded to be at quite a distance.

Sherlock turned his head, his fists still on the door. John stood only ten feet from him, soaked, shivering. Sherlock slowly let his hands fall down. He slowly turned his whole body, facing John. He grabbed his elbows and chattered his teeth, then sniffled. "John?" Sherlock asked. John sent him a weak smile. "John. Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, suddenly marching towards him. He grabbed John's shoulders. John was so cold. Sherlock snagged his hands back as if the coldness of John were an animal trying to bite him. "Dear, John, you're freezing," Sherlock exclaimed. He searched John's face, who only stared at the ground.

"Sherlock?" John asked again.

"Yes?" Sherlock responded.

"Sherlock?"

"John. What is it?"

"Sherlock?"

"John! What is it?"

"Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock writhed out of his sleep, spinning from the couch to the hard ground. He groaned, his face to floor. "Sherlock! Are you okay?" John asked, quickly kneeling by him and putting his hand gently on Sherlock's back.

"Yes," Sherlock groaned, "Yes I'm fine." He lifted himself a little with his arms and licked his lip. A metallic taste teased his tongue. He had split his lip on the fall. He turned his body to see John, and widened his eyes when he saw John's face. "John. By God, John, you're okay." Sherlock said this astoundingly and almost exasperated.

"Yes, they sent me home last night, but when I came in, you were sleeping. So I left you to sleep. I thought you would need your beauty sleep anyway. I didn't want to be poked fun at for not being able to swim well," John responded, almost in a joking manner.

"Oh please John, don't kid yourself. You can't swim," Sherlock responded forcing himself to stand. John reached out both his arms to help Sherlock, but Sherlock only arched himself away to avoid any assistance from his flat mate. John let his arms back down to his side, and bit his lip thinking of Sherlock's comment.

"You know," John began in spite, "I heard you were quite worried about me."

"Probably over exaggerated claims from worried bystanders. Trying to make me look more sympathetic than I actually am," came Sherlock's false response. Sympathy was never a word associated with Sherlock.

"So worried in fact, that you performed CPR on me," John said with a smirk. Sherlock turned his head to John. Of course people would talk. He furrowed his eyebrows, then looked back out the window. Yes. He had performed CPR on John. He had to save John. He was worried about John. And that was the point—the fact that he was worried. Sherlock inhaled deeply. Stalling. What could he say to throw John off? He thought back to the moments of the previous day: Their investigation had led them to their suspect with almost no lapse of time. Sherlock, of course, held the idea of chasing the victim to be the best possible choice. Tackle him to the ground, tell him his name was Sherlock, and have the satisfaction of solving another mystery. (However, it was almost a mystery of no satisfaction, due to the criminal being too easy to apprehend).

Sherlock remembered the attacker specifically attacking John. He remembered feeling panic in his chest from a distance, as he saw the attacker shove him into the water, worried about John's inability to swim. He remembered struggling to pull John out to shore, and ripping his shirt open. He remembered touching John's lips with his (which almost felt wrong because of John's unconsciousness).

A drop of blood hit the floor. In his thought, Sherlock had completely forgotten his injured lip. He brought his index finger to it, and scooped the building amount of blood from his injury. He turned to John, not to address his injury, but rather to address the CPR. "I had to save my colleague," Sherlock stated.

"Sherlock, you're bleeding," John said.

"And what of it?" Sherlock asked.

"Put some ointment or something of the sort on it," John demanded.

"No."

John sighed, and wrinkled his forehead. He turned and headed into the kitchen. He opened a drawer, and while rummaging around said, "I'd like to think you thought me more than a colleague to do such a heroic act to rescue me." Sherlock did. He thought more of John than he needed to. That went for John's character and the amount of times he thought of John a day. He always worried about John. His wellbeing, everything for that matter.

"Don't flatter yourself."

John stomped back towards Sherlock, and held out a bottle of ointment to him.

"I'm not putting that on," Sherlock declared.

"Put it on," John demanded in a spaced, articulate manner.

"No!"

"Fine. Stop being such a baby," John snapped as he twisted off the white cap to the ointment, squeezed some of it on his finger, and extended it towards Sherlock's face.

Sherlock backed away. "What are you doing?" He asked, sounding somewhat disgusted.

"God damn, would you just hold still?" John snapped. He gripped Sherlock's shoulder. At that gesture Sherlock no longer struggled. John lightly dabbed the small injury with his finger. He squinted while doing so, and grimaced when the blood smeared all over his fingers. Sherlock stared at John's face. His hair, his beautiful eyes, his touching complexion. John glanced up at Sherlock, and Sherlock dodged the glance by quickly averting his eyes. Sherlock could smell John's scent. Under his cheap musky cologne, Sherlock could recognize John's natural smell, which seemed to be sweeter when the distance was shortened. "Seems to be fine now. You really ought to do these things by yourself, you know?" John began, heading to the kitchen to rinse his finger. "Can't be taking care of you like a child that fell in the park."

"Who are you seeing today?" Sherlock asked abruptly. He sounded more displeased than anything else.

"A date," John replied while rubbing soap on his hands. "A date that involves me and her and certainly not you."

"You always find the need to say this."

"Maybe it's because, I don't know, you always find a way to ruin things. You always get in the way of us almost being in a moment. Just to bother me, and not taking her thoughts into consideration."

"I don't ruin things John. I just wish for your company."

"You have my company almost every minute of the day. We live together Sherlock."

"I don't know why you mention my lack of consideration for the girls' feelings. It's not as if I have the care to think about that."

"They're ladies."

"And each one is gone the next day."

John threw his arms down in clenched fists. He furrowed his eyebrows and bit his lip. Sherlock stared at his face with an indifferent expression. John turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. On his way out, Sherlock shouted, "Glad to have you back!"

There was a knock at the door of the flat. Sherlock stood still as he heard Mrs. Hudson's quiet footsteps head toward the door. He heard the door open, then a little chatter, then: "Jooohhhhnn!" Sherlock heard John move around in his room, and at the same moment footsteps head upstairs. A woman walked in with wavy blond hair. She looked to be around John's age, maybe a bit younger, with some wrinkles on her face. She smiled at Sherlock, who in turn turned away. John's footsteps sounded, and Sherlock heard him greet her, "Cassie! So nice to see you!" Sherlock mouthed his salutations in a mocking manner. "Sherlock this is Cassie," John began, "and Cassie, this is Sherlock."

With his back still turned, Sherlock uttered a, "Hello." There were more footsteps, and when Sherlock turned back, the two of them were gone. Sherlock grimaced thinking of the girl, and of John's promiscuous tendencies with females. It was always a different girl.

XxXx

Sherlock stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He dropped the towel and reached for his clothes, quickly sliding into them. After hearing the ruffling of the clothes while dressing, Sherlock stopped and listened a moment. He heard faint sounds… coming from John's room. He heard John gasp, then him mutter Cassie's name. Sherlock walked right out of the bathroom, leaving his purple button up shirt on the edge of the sink, and barged right inside John's room. John had been sitting in a chair, his pants down, with Cassie on her knees in front of him, blocking out any nudity Sherlock might see. Cassie shrieked, and John swore and pulled his pants up loosely to cover his lap.

"Sherlock! What on earth are you doing?" John yelled. Cassie rearranged her blouse began to gather her things.

Sherlock's mouth gaped. He had no idea what to say. He was at a loss of words. And finally, the pour excuse slid between his lips, "I lost my purple shirt. I can't find my purple shirt." Cassie, holding her things in her arms, left the room. John watched her with a strong look of disappointment.

"What the hell was that?" John yelled. He stood up. His fingers fumbled as he hastily buttoned his pants, and he headed right out past Sherlock. Sherlock looked down. He went back to the bathroom, dressed himself, sat in there awhile, and when he came back out John was napping on the sofa. Sherlock got the idea of taking a walk to relieve some stress, and left for the time being.


	3. Dinner

A/N: Hey guys, this chapter is brought to you completely and totally from Twitchy T-Rex. Thanks for reading thus far. Hope you enjoy!

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Sherlock paced around Baker Street, pondering how to make it up to John. He knew that it had to be done. As much as he loved John, he hated to upset him like this; though he paid no mind to how his 'lady friend' felt about this. Those women made him unbelievably infuriated.

John Watson was belonged to no one but him.

That much was certain, and no one would change that. Not now, not ever.

As much as he loved the thought of it, John had yet to realize that he loved Sherlock the same way Sherlock had, and still has for that matter, loved him. This whole thing was one-sided. But he would come to realize it. John was smart enough to figure out Sherlock's fondness of him.

Right?

Of course. John wasn't an idiot.

...Was he?

Xxx

Sherlock opened the door to 221B, greeted by silence. He grabbed the scarf he'd been wearing, throwing it in the air, only for it to land on the side gate of the stairs. As he made his way upstairs, a soft snoring met his ears. Sherlock came to the conclusion that he had fallen asleep, and still was. Sherlock stared at the man.

He simply stood.

And stared. Admiring the beauty John had to offer. From those blond strides of hair, all the way to his body. It was just wonderful. He did, however, seem a bit frail.

It was at that moment that the idea hit him. "Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, dancing around into the kitchen with joy and eagerness. "I will make something for John. A dinner! Yes, my idea is marvelous, spectacular, fit for a genius like myself!" Sherlock mumbled as he salvaged through the doors. "Though, I must scavenge for a dish to create for dear John…"

Sherlock dug around for recipes everywhere; Old recipe cards splayed around in a cabinet. He looked for recipes on a variety of websites. Finally deciding that a good pasta recipe would work, he began to create his apology for John.

"This will be perfect." Sherlock sang to himself as he boiled the pasta noodles, looking back and forth at the printed instructions. Through the bubbling of the water, he heard John had woken up, and soon after felt a cold stare from behind him. "Good evening, friend." Sherlock stated unconsciously, not moving his head an inch as he concentrated on the cooking in front of him. "How was your beauty sleep? I'm sure you didn't get enough with that limping in your step."

"What are you doing?" John asked with annoyance more than anything else.

"Oh, I'm just making dinner."

"I was going out to eat with Cassie."

"You're silly, aren't you?" Sherlock mumbled as he stirred the noodles absentmindedly.

"I didn't realize I was being silly," John spat. "I wasn't joking. I'm going out to eat. That's final."

"No. You're eating dinner with me. Any argument of yours is invalid to this point. There is no way of persuading me otherwise." Sherlock concluded. John could only storm back to the couch, fed up with his vain attempts at trying to argue with him.

He was always so stubborn, that Sherlock.

But why was he like that? Why did he always want to be around _him_?

That answer seemed far out of his reach, so he simply sat there, thinking of any reason to Sherlock's stubbornness. He always, _always_, messed with John's relationships. All of them. He never had a chance to keep a steady relationship with a woman. At least, whenever Sherlock was around. Was it because Sherlock had fun messing with him? He seemed to do that a lot to John.

The smoke alarm interrupted his thoughts, and he peeked into the dining room to see what had occurred. Sherlock was busily running back and forth, ingredients and such at one place, then a completely different spot the next. His moves were nothing short of elegant.

"Are you alright-"

"Never better." Sherlock chimed, the smoke alarm blaring in his ears. Sherlock simply ignored the beeping as he continued adding a variety of spices and vegetables. John was surprised Mrs. Hudson hadn't appeared, so he asked Sherlock. "She decided to go get groceries this evening," Was all Sherlock said about the subject, and continued making dinner.

"Oh." John lay back on the couch, sighing. Why did Sherlock have to be so aggravating sometimes?

"Dinner is ready, John." He heard from the next room, and he hesitantly arose from the comfort of the couch. _At least it's free, I guess,_ John told himself. "I hope you like it," Sherlock told him. He sat across from John, hands intertwined with the other, waiting for him to taste his apology.

John grabbed a fork, stabbing a few pieces of pasta. When it hit his taste buds, he realized how…stale it was. He also took in the fact that Sherlock had nothing to eat. "Why aren't you eating?" John asked as he tried swallowing the cardboard noodles.

"I'm not hungry." They sat in silence as John ate. He tried his best not to simply throw the noodles in the nearest dumpster. He finished half of it before he couldn't take any more of the hard taste.

"I'm full." John pushed the plate towards Sherlock. He looked at it with an empty stare.

"Just finish it."

"I said I'm _full_. I can't eat anymore."

"Can't or won't?" Sherlock inquired.

"I can't! Stop making such a big deal out of this!" John yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"…Fine." Sherlock sat there, looking to the pasta, averting his eyes from John so that he was looking behind him. John could have at least had the decency to finish the damn thing, but how could John consider _his_ feelings? He didn't.

It upset him, to think he couldn't make John happy. Sherlock got up and off his seat, then walked over to the couch, plopping himself down. He laid there silently in humiliation, not even bothering to see if John had left or not. He himself was too occupied with his thoughts.

How could John not like the dinner? It was the perfect plan. Sherlock had thought of it himself, yet John didn't enjoy it. Was it because Sherlock had thought of it? Maybe he should have gotten someone's opinion before hand, like Mrs. Hudson. She was a rather straightforward source. It was a mystery why John didn't eagerly finish the whole thing.

"Sherlock, you're going to get a cold without a blanket." He heard John say.

It surprised him that John still cared for him.

"No I won't." _As bitter as ever,_ Sherlock thought to himself. A sigh of defeat came from somewhere behind him, and he continued to stay silent.

Only silence.

Sherlock was screaming inside, frustrated, upset, furious that John couldn't realize.

He couldn't deduct those subtle hints of affection.

Those things that told John "I love you".

Sherlock should have known better.

He couldn't help falling for John.

But Sherlock didn't have friends. Even John said so. _Colleagues,_ he remembered. He also remembered that heart-wrenching pain soon after.

He should have known better.

Sherlock had no friends.


	4. Lunch?

A/N- Hey, this is SleepSprinkles. Sorry that it's been awhile, but this is what writer's block does to people, and I'm quite sure you have all experienced this at some point. So either you are on this chapter because you are enjoying it, baring through it, or looking for juicy bits. Whatever it be for, I hope you enjoy this chapter. My friend and I would love reviews! Tell us what you think!

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Sherlock held John against the wall. Their bodies pressed together, Sherlock's lips moving against John's. While their lips were firmly pressed together, Sherlock began to unbutton John's top. He couldn't think straight. He could hardly even think. All he could think of was John. How badly he wanted John. How long this torment had been. How he had just wanted John to know his feelings, and how John would be okay with it. John parted his lips from Sherlock's and uttered, "Sherlock… please." Sherlock slipped his hands under John's shirt, feeling his skin. He pushed John against the wall with more force, causing books on a nearby end table to fall to the ground. Sherlock then brought his lips to John's neck, who in return let out a gasp, then shuddered. Sherlock could feel the goose bumps on John's skin form. He reached for the button on John's pants and could feel his pants had grown quite tight. He took his lips from John's neck and breathed while he unbuttoned his pants. He then gripped the zipper, and began to slowly unzip John's pants. "Sherlock," John whispered loudly. Sherlock put a finger to John's mouth to shush him, and asked, "Do you want this or not?" John nodded. The door flew open, "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John and Sherlock jumped. Mrs. Hudson was unfazed by their activity. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. Mrs. Hudson was approaching him while he was lying on the coach. "Sherlock I made some tea and coffee and eggs and… Well I made some breakfast," Mrs. Hudson smiled. Sherlock groaned. It was just a dream. Another dream with John, although the last one hadn't been that enjoyable.

"Oh my," Sherlock mumbled, scrambling for a pillow to hide his excitement. He coughed, more to rid the room of silence than anything else. John stood there, staring at the flustered man, though composure was still present. "Is there something that I can help you with?" Sherlock snapped. He was flustered; he could feel his face turning hot with embarrassment.  
"Don't be so embarrassed Sherlock. It happens to everyone, whether you like it or not. No biggie," John had told him as nonchalantly as possible. "That is, unless it was from a dream. Unless it was from a dream. Then I would wonder who 'she' is."

"She?" Sherlock scoffed.

John shrugged, "Or he." With that, John turned on his heel and left the room. Sherlock widened his eyes. He stood there, the pillow still over his lap, and moved his eyes across the room. How embarrassing. Sherlock had set the pillow back down, seeming that his loins had calmed down, and tied his robe tightly. He walked towards the door and opened it, he took a step towards the stair case, and overheard Mrs. Hudson and John talking.

"Do you think Sherlock will join us for breakfast?" He heard Mrs. Hudson's voice.

"I would hope so." Came John's reply.

There was a moment of silence. "Have you two been arguing?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Uh, no, not necessarily."

"Why won't you touch your food darling?"

"Just waiting for Sherlock to come down and join us."

Sherlock slowly, and quietly, to the best of his ability, began to head down the stair case.

"Sometimes I feel like he doesn't enjoy my cooking."

He took each step tentatively to avoid creaking.

"Nonsense Mrs. Hudson, your cooking is wonderful."

And each step was treated with more care than the last.

"I suppose he won't be eating with us."

And on contact of the last step, it creaked, and loudly too.

"Shh, shh," John began quietly, "I think he's coming."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and bit his lip. So much for the stealth. He quickly stepped onto the landing and turned the corner, and beamed the most fake smile he could at the two sitting at the table. Mrs. Hudson's sitting posture improved, and she clapped as she greeted, "Oh yes, dear Sherlock, would you like to join us?" Sherlock parted his lips to speak, but paused to glance at John, who stared at him with great anticipation, and to glance at Mrs. Hudson, who looked as if he didn't she might die. "I shall," Sherlock said apathetically. Sherlock headed over to the table quickly, and sat in between John and Mrs. Hudson. "Eggs, muffins, tea, coffee, how much time did you spend on this Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, casting his eyes over to her.

"Oh, not much time at all," Mrs. Hudson chimed. "I made you over easy eggs, I hope you do like them Sherlock."

"Perhaps," was his reply. Sherlock gripped his fork, and turned his gaze over to John, who sipped his coffee while he stared at Sherlock. Sherlock averted his gaze back to the wall. He began to eat his eggs. John cleared his throat. Sherlock continued to eat his eggs and drink his coffee. John cleared his throat again, louder this time. Sherlock slowly turned his head to John, nearly glaring at him.

"I was wondering," John began with a pause, staring at Sherlock's face, "I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me today?"

Sherlock chewed his egg slowly, staring at him, and after swallowing, asked, "Why?"

John stuttered at his response and said, "J-just to talk… about things."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock repeated, finishing his coffee then standing up.

"Sherlock, did you enjoy it?" Mrs. Hudson asked eagerly.

"Yes," he said as he headed back upstairs.

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked Mrs. Hudson, as he paced the room back and forth. Mrs. Hudson shrugged and answered almost exasperatedly, "He went out."

Sherlock scowled. "We were going to lunch." He stopped his pacing, closed his eyes slowly and sighed. "I'm going back to bed." He grabbed his scarf and began to undo it as he turned away and began to climb the stairs.

"But Sherlock, wait!" Mrs. Hudson called to him. John entered abruptly. He raised an eyebrow, and looked at Mrs. Hudson. "He's going back to bed," she said to him. John sighed, and ran up the staircase.

"Sherlock wait!" John shouted. Sherlock stopped, his scarf draped over his arm and his coat half off. He turned and looked at John. "What are you doing?" John frowned.

"Going out," Sherlock paused and glanced around, "to lunch with you." He began to put his coat back on. He took a few steps towards John as he fastened the last few buttons on his coat. He then flung the scarf over his shoulder and began to put it on. He fumbled with his collar and took a few more steps from John. He looked from his collar and now looked right at John's face. John stared back, with a look of dumbfounded astonishment. "Well," Sherlock said suddenly, his face only inches from John's, "shall we be going?" John blinked hard and cocked his head to the side, then nodded.

xxx

Sherlock sipped his coffee. He glanced over at John, who sat across from the table. John pushed his noodles around with his fork. He had his lips pursed, and his eyes, even though they looked at his noodles, were glazed over. He sighed as he corrected his position, setting down his fork while doing so. He took a small breath, parting his lips to speak before Sherlock decided to interrupt. "So you wanted to talk about 'things' I presume?"

John hesitated, then nodded. "Uh, yes." He sat up straight. "I wanted to apologize for how I have been acting recently. I've probably been a bit harsh, or just, rude." He looked from his food to Sherlock, who had no expression on his face from John's perspective. Sherlock leaned over the table towards him.  
"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, leering at the man across from him. John smiled, and chuckled. At that response, Sherlock retreated back to sitting with his back to his chair. "I asked you a question." Sherlock said impatiently.  
"Nothing," John responded quickly. "I'm not looking for anything." He cleared his throat a bit, then grabbed his fork and twisted his noodles awkwardly. He stuck the fork in his mouth; some of the noodles smacked the bottom of his chin.  
Sherlock gripped his coffee cup, tightening his hand around the beverage, and began to lift it to his lips. He felt bad for not outright accepting the apology, but he couldn't risk anything. He paused as the rim of the cup touched his lips, pulling the cup back. "You know John… you are my friend." He said.  
John slurped the noodles into his mouth. "You've told me this before. I know I am your friend. You're mine."  
"I thought I was your 'colleague.'" Sherlock replied, putting emphasis on the last word.  
"You're my _friend_ Sherlock."  
"And I still mean what I said." Sherlock sipped his coffee.  
John smirked. "So now, let me ask, what is it you want?"  
Sherlock smiled and chuckled, receiving a grin from his friend. "Success," John said with triumph.  
Sherlock's smile and chuckle vanished, "What do you mean?"  
"My goal today was to make you laugh. Oh here, I got this for you," John passed Sherlock a gift box.  
"What is it?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.  
"Just open it."  
He looked from the box to John, then back at John. He carefully opened the box, and grimaced. "Is this a joke?" He asked.  
"I thought you loved scarves."  
He chuckled in spite. "I don't need any."  
"It's the thought that counts."  
"Please, don't think."  
John shook his head. "Well, I'm going to head off for now. I will see you, hopefully this evening." John stood up. "The bill is all paid for." Sherlock looked up, and he was gone.

xxx

Sherlock sat on the couch, the scarf John had given him in his hands. He did like it, loved it actually, but John couldn't know. Or maybe he could, but Sherlock just wouldn't tell him. He was too stubborn to show it. He thumbed the scarf, only now taking in the smooth and silky texture. It was soft. Sherlock began to wrap it around his neck, and walked into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. The dark purple scarf was nice. His thoughts drifted, and he then wondered about John.

When was he coming home? More importantly, where was he?

* * *

A\N- A BIG thank you to my friend Twitchy T-Rex. He helps me so much with improving the writing and checking for mistakes and everything. I've been having a hard time typing because of writer's block, and he helps me through. So thank you. And thank you readers for reading this. Reviews are appreciated. Tell us what you think, or like, or anything. Once again, thanks!


	5. Scarf

A/N from SleepSprinkles: Hey guys, this chapter is brought to you from TwitchyTrex. Sorry it's been awhile, I've been busy for military preparation, and he's had this thing ready for almost a month, and I haven't posted it. I promise to try and get chapters up more regularly. I want to thank everyone who has read this, whether you have like it or not. And thanks for the reviews, they make Twitchy and I smile. Hope you like this next installment.

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Sherlock felt a chill running through his apartment. That was why he was wearing the scarf John had given him. It was a legit excuse, wasn't it? There was no chance in hell that he would admit that it was a great gift. A perfect gift, actually. The more he thought about it, the more absorbed he became in this predicament. "Maybe I just won't wear it…" He said to himself.

So he tried pulling the scarf off.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't pull it off; literally. This was a thoughtful gift from John, making it all the more difficult to get rid of. It would be low, even for him, to not wear it. He mumbled in frustration, rummaging through the fabric with his long fingers. "John…" The words hung on his mouth deliciously. The name itself was wonderful, magnificent, and lovely; the feeling only intensified whenever John was around. It took a large amount of self-control to keep his hands from touching all of John.

_His_ John and nobody else's John.

As Sherlock inhaled, he only then noticed a hint of John's smell. It smelled like cologne, a typical smell for John. Little did he know that Sherlock absolutely adored the smell. It was intoxicating; he just couldn't get enough of it.

A door slammed, knocking Sherlock out of his daze. "...Hello?" He sat upright, readying himself for whatever had come through the door.

The steps became a crescendo of noise as they came up the stairs. Sherlock reached for a pistol nearby, his finger aching for crime.

He aimed at the door.

"Sherlock!" A voice yelled, and was present before long. John had walked through the door, not even bothering to notice the gun Sherlock was holding. As Sherlock set down the gun, John noticed the small change in color of the scarf Sherlock had.

It was no longer a dark shade of blue.

It was...purple?

"Oh," John said rather loudly. "I thought you didn't like that scarf." John retorted, giving Sherlock a bit of attitude. Sherlock, in turn, huffed out loud.

"It...It was cold. If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't even be _wearing_ this." He tried his best to sound disgusted, throwing a bit of the scarf in the air to add emphasis. "Don't flatter yourself, John."

John sighed in aggravation. All this stress and arguing wasn't good for him. He wanted to irk the man in return. "I didn't know you loved me _that_ much." John teased Sherlock; however, something snapped in Sherlock about the way that he had said that.

Sherlock had no idea why, or even how he could have done so. His arm reached for the pistol involuntarily, and shot the wall near John. A loud bang echoed throughout the room.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John felt his face redden with anger.

"Oops," Sherlock brushed it off like it nothing happened, polishing the weapon with his index finger. "Just bored, I guess."

John raised his hands in defeat. "Fine! I get it! I can't win! I give up! The great and powerful Sherlock Holmes wins again!" He walked hastily out the door, slamming it behind him.

As Sherlock walked towards the door, his vision became hazy, but decided against it as he rushed out to get John. "Wait," He mumbled to John hesitantly. "I...apologize for my actions. I'm just..."

"Just what, Sherlock?" John demanded. Two hands slammed themselves up against the wall, trapping John in that very spot, Sherlock mere inches from his face. He slowly closed the distance before their lips touched softly. "S-Sherlock...Stop..." John whined. Sherlock backed away, still keeping a close enough distance so that he could feel John's short breaths on his face.

"Why...would I ever stop..." Sherlock said in a tender whisper, albeit kissing up and down John's neck.

"Nng...Sherlock..." John protested, but Sherlock only tuned him out as he continued showering John with his affections. He attacked John's shirt with his skeletal hands, slipping them off in one fluid motion. His hands explored all of John's body. Every single inch of skin was touched, leaving a cool stinging sensation of lust. "Please..."

"Shh, John," He bit at John's bottom lip teasingly. "I know you want this..." Sherlock's vision blurred.

Sherlock shook his head. He must have been daydreaming.

Sherlock?

Daydreaming?

That would never happen. That _never_ happens. Especially if it's about John. Sherlock rubbed at his temples, sighing angrily. "God...what's wrong with me." His body went limp in defeat. For once in his life he had absolutely no idea what to do. Sherlock noticed his face was warm, most likely because he was flustered, he deducted.

John had constantly been on his mind. _Constantly_ present inside his mind. Continuously distracting him. It was a good thing there was nothing important going on, or he surely would have felt the consequences.

Maybe if he did it.

Just once.

It does relieve stress, and that was exactly what he needed less of. He was already in his robe; it would be easy to finish. God knows how pent up he must have been.

He didn't need to look to know that he was already excited. He needed something to look at though. The first thing he thought of was John's laptop.

No.

Just naked women.

Maybe he had a picture of himself on there somewhere?

He opened John's laptop. Fingers aggressively typed at the keyboard as he searched up and down. "No...no...naked women...more women...ew..." He scrolled through the pictures. Nothing but women.

There were lots of women.

It killed his mood.

As he started to think, he realized just how minimal his chances were that John would actually reciprocate Sherlock's same feelings for him.

John liked women.

That was just how it looked, and how it would most likely turn out.

John did not like men.

Especially Sherlock.

* * *

A/N from SS: I kept parts of the note he attached at the bottom for me, because they made me laugh.

"I hope you like it, dudeee... :3 kinda short tho haha that's what she said whut" ~ Twitchy


	6. Lightbulbs

A/N: Hey this is SleepSprinkles. My goal was to get this to you guys as soon as possible. And I'm hoping this is pretty soon for you. I am thrilled to see that people are thoroughly enjoying this, some through reviews, and others through favorites and follows. Just hoping that you enjoy.

* * *

When John entered through the doors of the flat he was greeted by silence. Mrs. Hudson wasn't rambling on about her nonsense, and Sherlock wasn't lurking around begging for a case. He grasped the railing of the staircase as he made his way above. He enjoyed this silence. It was nice for a change because he could actually hear himself _think_, although his thoughts weren't particularly fruitful or of importance. He gently kicked the door closed behind him as he began to remove his jacket. While making his way across the room and slipping the jacket off his arms, he noticed his laptop had been opened. He paused, his jacket resting at his wrists, and his eyebrow rose. His 'Photos' folder was open, and women scantily clad (most of them nude) made up almost every picture in the folder. Feeling slightly humiliated he threw off his coat and angrily closed out of the folder. He immediately wondered what Sherlock would be doing even glancing at that folder. Frustrated, he wanted to confront him, but to prevent further humiliation he concluded that he wouldn't even bring it up to Sherlock, that being Sherlock probably left it open to cause a senseless fuss. He backed away from the computer, adjusting his posture as he ran his hands and let out a sigh that puffed his cheeks.

xXx

Sherlock pushed the cart quickly through the aisles. He would occasionally readjust his hands as the grip on the cart felt odd. If he ever needed anything it was only a few objects, so he could easily carry them, or maybe sometimes need a basket, but that day a cart was needed. Being in a supermarket store felt foreign. John would typically make the trips to the store while Sherlock lazed about in his 'mind palace.'

Sherlock stopped his cart on the shiny (but somewhat dirty) store tile. A light bulb display was in front of him, stacked in a sloppy tower. He mindlessly snagged a pack of four and very gently placed them in his cart. His eyes darted around as he went through the list in his head. He headed towards the produce, intentionally avoiding the glances from other customers. He grabbed at random vegetables, random fruits. It may not have been things he needed, but he wanted to bring to back everything he bought and show John. Not for any particular reason; just to show him. After grabbing at other odds and ends, he finally grabbed a half gallon of milk and set it in his cart. As he backed away from the dairy section, he felt his back collide with someone behind him. Startled, he turned around and immediately apologized: "I'm sorry." The person whom he collided with grew a hesitant smile. It was Molly. Sherlock's lips parted. He had not realized that it had been someone he knew.

"Sherlock!" She said with a smile, and after a long, uncomfortable came: "Hey." The end of "hey" dragged out a little longer than usual.

Sherlock nodded slowly once, and returned her greeting, "Hello… Molly." They stood there in a horrid, awkward silence. Molly's smile was meek and she stared at Sherlock with eager eyes. She had wanted a conversation.

"So, uh…" Molly began, "how have you been?" Sherlock glanced at her cart. Groceries. She wore a black shirt and khaki skirt. Her hair was well brushed and pinned away from her face. She wore no make-up.

"Fine," Sherlock replied, nodding looking around. She nodded also, and began to twiddle her fingers as she looked away from Sherlock. "What about yourself?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

"Well, uh, great, actually," she said slowly, her smile growing. "I, uh, I have a boyfriend now."

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head. He hoped to seem somewhat interested, but he was not particularly well at that sort of thing.

"Yeah," she chuckled, almost seeming surprised at the fact she had one herself, and her eyes widened as she repeated herself, "yeah. We've been dating for almost… 4 months now? It's been wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Absolutely. He's a wonderful person." Sherlock was growing tired of hearing 'wonderful.' "His name is Mark. He works at the bookstore…" Sherlock rolled his eyes. Molly could see his disinterest and she quickly changed the direction of the conversation, "How are you and uh, and John?"

Sherlock felt his face turn red. Molly couldn't tell, but Sherlock could feel it. He opened his mouth, and spoke with hesitation, "What exactly do you mean?" He shifted his weight.

"You know… just how are you two doing? How long have you two been togeth—"

"It's not like that," Sherlock quickly interrupted.

Molly opened her mouth in an 'O' shape and didn't say anything for a moment. "Oh. Well… you see I thought that you two we—"

"I'm not attracted to him Molly!" Sherlock lied with a snap.

Molly looked startled. "I didn't ask… if you were…"

"Sorry. But no, we're not together. Just living with each other."

Molly gripped her cart and let out a nervous chuckle, "Well, I'll be seeing you Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Molly."

"Goodbye!"

xXx

John scrolled through the site page. A matchmaker site was on the screen. He clicked the login in button, and with one finger began to type in information. He pursed his lips as he did this. He didn't have any luck as of late; not a single, thoughtful girl. Maybe one would want a quick fling, exchange giving head, or just be paid after relations were made. But that wasn't everything John was looking for. John did want something more. Sure, it could be nice having relations, but what could be better than an emotional and physical relationship? That's what he really wanted. As he navigated to his inbox, he wondered about Sherlock. Wouldn't Sherlock want a meaningful relationship ever? Had Sherlock ever been in one? What did Sherlock look for in women?

One new message was in his inbox. He opened it. It read:

"Hey there, Dr. John Watson. I absolutely adored your profile. I was wondering if you'd send me your number. I'd like to plan a date with you

-Lora"

John felt a smile spread across his face. Her profile picture was cute. Her hair was dyed a scarlet color. Her eyes were green. It was obvious through her picture that she was a natural red head, but she dyed her hair a more intense red to emphasis it. She had some wrinkles, but John didn't mind that. John responded to her message with his number.

The door flew open. John turned and immediately stood up. Sherlock stood in the entry way, holding multiple bags in each hand. He had been tired of holding them, but he wasn't going to let that show to John.

"Do you need any help?" John asked.

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replied as he walked behind John into the kitchen. He plopped the bags down on the table and before John could ask what he was done Sherlock said, "I went for groceries and some other things we may have needed. Like light bulbs. The lamp is burnt out anyway. Besides, I was sure you'd appreciate the carrots, lettuce, oh, and the milk."

John couldn't help but smile at the last remark. He saw the purple scarf he had given Sherlock wrapped around his neck. He remained smiling, and assuming Sherlock was in a good mood, John asked, "So Sherlock. If it's okay for me to ask, what do you like in someone?"

Sherlock stopped reaching inside the store bags and pulling out the items he had bought. Instead of appearing nervous and unsure to the question, he responded with a, "Why do you ask?"

"Well I was thinking about relationships, and you know… women," he chuckled after women, "and I wondered about you. Just exactly what was your type. That's what I wondered."

Sherlock looked at John, and gave him a cold, hard stare with his translucent eyes. "I'm not particular about anything in women, John. I don't need a relationship. Besides, it just wouldn't work. I'd need someone who could tolerate me. Someone who could _think_. Someone who wasn't average. Someone that…" Sherlock paused, looking away from John, and finished silently, "that I could actually care about."

"Irene?" John asked.

"No. And not Molly either; she has a boyfriend." Sherlock passed by the computer, and in mid-step, he stopped. He looked at the computer screen. "Revolting." He spat.

John looked from Sherlock to the computer. He stammered, " I think she is a lovely girl!"

"She dyes her hair, how gross. And has too many freckles, and moles." Sherlock looked harder at the page. "Is this a dating website, John?"

"Yes."

"Come on. You need to get off those things. You already know you won't find anything meaningful."

"Well," John piped, "we are going on a date. And she hasn't asked for any sexual relations of the sort, so I think this might have the chance to be something."

Sherlock had his back to him, eyebrows furrowed, wondering how on Earth this whole 'straight' activity with John would last.


	7. Miserable

A/N: Hey this is SleepSprinkles and here is a chapter from Twitchy. Enjoy :D

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_Sherlock's heated fingertips traced up John's sides, sweet moans coming from the man. Every bit of skin was to be caressed softly, gently. Kisses, tender and loving, placed themselves up and down John's body. His face was warm; it stung with heat. He never thought a man, _especially_ Sherlock, would make him feel like this. "I know you like this…" Sherlock whispered as he nibbled on John's ears. He bit his lip, forcing back moans of wonderful pleasure as the kisses continued to go lower, lower, lower…_

John woke with a start, his sheets flung off in a frenzied panic. His breathing was quick and ragged as he delved back into reality. He gulped loudly, a sloppy exhale following. He stopped to think about what just occurred.

Sherlock…

And him?

_Together?_

No.

No, he thought to himself. That was just a dream. "Yeah…" John mumbled to himself. "Just a dream, that's it." He looked down, noticing a hint of excitement. His face flushed. "That's the only explanation." John told himself.

There was no possible way in _hell _that John was like that. He wasn't _gay_.

Not John. Nope.

He liked _women._

He sighed in frustration, letting his head fall back onto the soft comfort of his pillow.

Xxx

John did his best to avoid Sherlock without _completely_ ignoring him for the morning. As he updated his blog, he only glanced at Sherlock when necessary. When eating, he kept his eyes fixed on his food. Of course, Sherlock hardly ever ate, so he didn't have to worry about that part.

At about 2 o'clock sharp, John received a text. For a tense moment, he had thought it was Sherlock that wanted something. Sherlock was the last person he wanted to see. It was hard not to be with a dream like…_that_…

He shook his head, mumbling, "Don't think about that" over and over to himself.

If he didn't think about it, it would go away by itself.

No big deal.

His attention went back to his phone. The message was from Lora. A sigh of relief came as he opened the text.

_Dyed my hair brown yesterday (; Would you like to meet me at the beach for a 'date'? (:_

_Great (: And sure, see you there soon. _John replied. As it sent, he packed the necessities for a good beach date. Drinks, towels, swimming suit of course. It was all neatly packed within minutes, and he was ready for his date.

With a woman.

"John?" He turned around. His flatmate, dressed up in his usual style, which consisted of a dress shirt and somewhat fancy trousers, stood there. His shirt was a deep purple. His curly mess of hair hung just above his eyebrows. His trousers fit perfectly. John mentally slapped himself for paying attention to such detail.

"Oh, Sherlock." He said rather bitterly, though more to himself for observing too much. Sherlock must have rubbed off on him.

Sherlock grimaced, only slightly. He thought he never would have noticed this if it wasn't at this moment. Again, he inwardly shunned himself.

"Why are you going to the beach?" Sherlock asked in a somewhat demanding manner.

"That was a rather quick deduction," John remarked. "And I'm going on a date. With _Lora_."

"I'm coming with you."

"No." Sherlock was already preparing.

"Bloody hell," His hand rested on his forehead.

This wasn't what he asked for.

Xxx

They walked side by side.

Or, Sherlock walked beside John, persistently he might add.

"Do you have to walk so close?" John asked, a bit annoyed. He didn't enjoy how close Sherlock was being. Especially since it was _today_ of all days.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, completely oblivious, or so he thought. John sighed in defeat.

"Never mind."

They continued walking towards the beach. Maybe if he saw Lora, John thought to himself, he would be at ease, if not just a little bit.

That dream had a constant, persistent effect on him.

He just couldn't look at Sherlock the same way ever since that dream last night. With how intimate they got, it was difficult just to keep his composure around the tall man. He just didn't know how much of this he could take, whatever this was.

They walked in silence, both drowning in their own thoughts. John avoided eye contact with Sherlock, his head tilted the opposite way.

Sherlock glanced over. John wasn't looking. There was absolutely no sign of attraction to him. John did look deep in thought, he noted. Maybe he could sneak a touch. With just the right moment…

John wouldn't recall anything.

John's hand was in a fist. His walk was a rhythmic pattern, similar to a march. His eye movement was completely set away from Sherlock. Maybe if at the right step, the right vibrations going about from walking, he could do it right then and there.

His hand slowly but surely glided towards the prize. Left, right, left, right. Sherlock's hand was inches now from the sweet touch of John; that touch he so longed to have all to himself. Was it so much to ask? Just the one and only person that mattered so much to him? Couldn't he just have John?

Left, right.

Left, right.

Stop.

…Stop?

His hand cowered backwards to the comfort of his own body as he looked up. John was already talking to this…this terrible sight of a woman.

A brunette, of course. John had a thing for brunettes, he summed up, from all of his previous "misadventures". It was tied back into a curly mess of a pony tail. Her eyes were a mixed, hazy blue and green. Her skin was clear of any blemishes or acne, a well-tanned light brown, which seemed to be the only good thing to her portrait. She had hardly anything on but a string to cover her privates. Her bra didn't seem to do anything but simply exist.

"Prostitute." Sherlock mumbled, catching John off guard. He told Lora to excuse him for a moment, and he turned to Sherlock menacingly.

"Sherlock, would you take a break?" John spat. "I _won't_ have you offending this one."

"I don't understand." Sherlock said bluntly. "I'm simply telling you what she is; a prostitute. I'm simply saving you from trouble. Isn't that what-" He hesitated. "Isn't that what friends do?"

"If you're my friend you'd let me be _happy_." John grit his teeth together in fury. Sherlock always managed to ruin his dates. Whether it be from him butting in, or John had to help Sherlock with a case, it was all crazy. Sometimes the women he went out with thought he was in a _relationship_ with _Sherlock_.

Sherlock stared, the words replaying inside his mind like a song.

_If you're my friend you'd let me be happy_.

"But…" The tone in his voice made him sound desperate. "That's what I'm trying to _do_. If you're too stupid to see that, then fine. So be it." Sherlock wouldn't let himself seem weak. "I'll let you enjoy this excuse of a girlfriend. But when you find out she's selling herself to other horny men, you'll realize that I was right. And I'm _**always**_ right." Sherlock swiveled on his foot, walking towards the woman and away from John. "I believe we're at the beach, no? How about we have some 'fun'?" He wiggled his hands in the air while giving a fake smile, sarcasm as plain as day.

Sherlock walked off towards the beach. "What's his deal?" Lora asked with a contorted expression.

"Oh, ignore him. That's Sherlock for you." John sighed.

"Is he your-"

"Flatmate."

"…Oh. I'm sorry."

"That's what everyone says."

Xxx

"John, I got you some ice cream." A cone was offered to John, but not from whom he was expecting. Sherlock was the one who held it firmly, waiting for John to accept his 'gift'. John simply stared at it.

"Hey, buddy," Lora snapped her fingers, getting Sherlock's attention. "We're trying to have a good time. We don't exactly need a third wheel, so you can leave." Sherlock stood up as the two stared down each other, not willing to tolerate the woman's attitude. "And why didn't you get one for me? I'm pretty hot here too."

"Firstly, I am _not_ your 'buddy' and I never intend to be." Sherlock retorted. "And I don't buy things for _prostitutes_." An expression of disgust came to be as he looked over her again. "You definitely aren't attractive; I don't see how men would pay even a dime to your services." Lora had a look of utter disbelief while John was sternly giving Sherlock a stop-this-now-or-I'll-kill-you-and-I-will-kill-you look, but it was ignored nonetheless. "You're such an-" John coughed loudly, getting Sherlock's attention. Noting John's unpleasing look, he decided to change his word choice.

"You're an insufferable excuse of a homosapien and I strongly fathom your presence-"

"_Sherlock_. Just…go."

Sherlock stopped, and listened. He obeyed.

Right now, he'd do anything for John. Hell, he always would have done anything for John; however, he knew he wasn't making John happy, of course.

_If you're my friend you'd let me be happy_.

He walked away, refusing to let himself look back.

He just walked.

Sherlock didn't know how far he had or would walk.

He simply walked.

Away from John.

Because he didn't make John happy.

He sat down in a random spot, hitting the sand with his body weight. His hands were sticky with melting ice cream. His face drooped.

The world could be cruel sometimes, he thought to himself. This moment was one of those moments.

"Sherlock?" He instantly recognized the voice as Molly's.

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "What the hell do you want?" His voice cracked, tears forcing their way from his eyes. One more blow to Sherlock and surely they would come out in gallons.

Molly stayed silent, instantly getting the message that something was wrong. Her yellow blouse blew with the wind as she watched the man scream for help on the inside. _You look sad, when you think he can't see you,_ she remembered telling him.

"Is this about…" Molly hesitated, knowing that he would simply deny that he had feelings for John to anyone but himself. "About someone you like?" The petite woman sat there as she waited for an answer.

"I don't understand." Sherlock whispered. He repeated it again, only softer. "I'm trying to make…her…happy, but," Sherlock's breathing staggered. "All it does is push h-her…" His hands shook violently, squeezing them into fists. "…Away."

There was no one here but Molly and Sherlock. Grey clouds up above covered the sun's rays, denying them warmth and comfort. Running steps were audible, mingling with the ragged breathing of Sherlock. He looked to the source, seeing only John.

John seeing Sherlock.

His eyes, John noticed, were blood-red. His hair looked a complete wreck to what it used to be. Melted ice cream was caked all over Sherlock's hands. He looked miserable, like he was falling apart. John watched as Sherlock crumbled to pieces right in front of him.

"Sherlock…?" John walked closer, stretching out his hand.

He backed away.

"Sherlock, get over here, you idiot." John tried getting closer.

He wouldn't listen.

Then it hit John like a bullet.

Sherlock always listened to John. _Always._

Except now.

He ran.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

A/N: Next chapter already in the works. Just so you know, there'll be a case. Hope you enjoyed.


	8. Plastic Bags

A/N: Hey guys. Here is chapter 8 for everyone. I just want everyone to know that the update to nine will be a few days longer than usually (I'm being processed through MEPS this Thursday to Friday). We have really enjoyed the reviews you have submitted. They have put smiles on our faces :D Anywho, I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Regardless of the steps John took, his date was still displeased when John strode away. He had told her that he needed to go. What else could he do? He was worried about Sherlock, and that was something that he couldn't hide, no matter how hard he could try.

Lora had made a remark about John and Sherlock's relationship as he left. John knew as well as Lora did that that very day would be the last day they saw each other. John also knew that Sherlock was right about all his unsuccessful attempts to find a decent date over the web. The thought made him bitter, but the bitterness didn't last long because of the worry that had already taken him over.

It bothered him when Sherlock randomly felt like disappearing. But what friend wouldn't get bothered when another friend would keep randomly disappearing? The thought of the word 'friend' had an unusual weight on John's thoughts, but instead of thinking of anything more he pushed it away, and went to busying his mind with Sherlock's possible whereabouts.

xXx

By the end of the day John had no luck, and with wary and tired feet he decided to return home to retire to the messy, cluttered 221B Baker Street. As he approached the door to the building, it opened in front of him, swinging inward slowly at first, then more quickly. He arched backwards to put a more comfortable distance between him and the door. As the door reached its maximum opening, John was somewhat startled to see Mycroft holding the door handle. Mycroft was in mid stride, but stopped and rose a bit on his feet, startled to see John there.

"What a pleasant surprise!" Mycroft smiled. He eased himself slowly back down, feet completely touching the floor.

John corrected his posture. "Indeed," John smiled and nodded. "What are you doing here?" He chuckled, trying to make their encounter a little less awkward than it was becoming.

"Oh! A case. I came to see my dear brother about a strange, yet enthralling case I thought might pique his curiosity. He didn't seem as disheveled as he tends to be when I drop by. Dear Watson, I promise this case will be just as interesting for you. I do have to be going, however, but knowing my brother he won't hesitate to brief you. Good evening." With a nod and brisk pace, Mycroft was off.

The door slowly began to bring itself back. John leaned forward and stopped it from going any farther. For some reason, there now being a case was not in the least exciting to him. He felt more disappointed, but the reasons that followed that weren't exactly clear. After a moment of silence and staring off blankly, John proceeded to enter, closing the door softly behind him.

He knew at this point, thanks to Mycroft, that Sherlock was home. He felt a mix of relief and agitation. Part of him wanted to sock Sherlock hard in the face, and the other part wanted to apologize. Mrs. Hudson tiptoed into the entry way, and immediately began to speak to John, but without letting himself hear her words, he just said sternly, "Not now, Mrs. Hudson." John hurried past her and trotted up the staircase, throwing the door open. He was not surprised to see Sherlock spread out in a chair. His hands were together, and his two index fingers touched his chin. He cast his eyes over to John, who took a deep breath. He brought his hands down and gave him a small, subtle, almost invisible smile.

"What were—" John began.

"How was the date, John?" Sherlock asked. He rose from the chair, letting his hands fall down to his side. He seemed so composed. This had been the opposite of how he was when John had last seen him. His hair was clean, curled, perfect. His face absent of the pain or hurt John had sworn he witnessed earlier that day.

"I left after you left. I went to find you, and left her. To leave it blunt, we won't be seeing each other anymore," John responded. He almost felt proud saying that, but he was still concerned about Sherlock.

Sherlock walked past John into the kitchen. He paused at the counter, turning his head and body slightly towards John. "That's too bad. I thought you said it might go somewhere."

John felt himself bite his tongue. That bastard. "You were right… again, about her character I mean."

Sherlock had his back turned to him, and John was unable to see his response to that remark.

"Were you… okay earlier?" John asked, suddenly incredibly sympathetic.

Sherlock turned to face John. He parted his lips and cast his eyes to the ground, letting out an almost inaudible sigh. "Don't worry about that. I'm fine now. Sorry you had to see that."

John stared at Sherlock's face, mostly at his eyes, but Sherlock's eyes did not meet his at that moment. He wanted badly to say more things to Sherlock, but he found his speech to be at a loss.

"We have a case!" Sherlock said suddenly, almost perking up. "A murder."

John was not interested. He was not craving this.

"Possibly a double murder. Two pubescent females, in two different places. Both girls look similar. Clothing removed but no signs of sexual assault. Identical ligature marks around ankles and wrists. One with plastic bags shoved down her throat, another strangled to death with her telephone cords. The one with the plastic bags that suffocated her has her throat slit. Which hardly makes sense. Maybe the killer wanted to make sure he had the job done completely. The security that she was dead. The second one, she seems to have just been strangled. The phone cords left severe ligature marks around her neck. The killer must have felt more confident with this one."

Sherlock gave all this detail to inform John about what they would be getting involved in, but he also talked about it like he was trying to verify other unsaid thoughts. John felt himself shudder a bit. It was disturbing to hear.

xXx

Sherlock grabbed the yellow caution tape and held it up so John didn't have to bend over as much to get under it. Lestrade approached the two. Sherlock made his way under the tape.

"A third one," he said to the two. "She's the same age, looks somewhat like them."

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, taking in what he said, and proceeded to the body with no words. John followed him. Sherlock rose an eyebrow as they approached the body. Someone else was standing over it, looking at it closely. Lestrade jogged over to Sherlock and John.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted. Sherlock turned quickly, casting a sharp glare. "Sherlock I want you to meet William," Lestrade motioned to the other person by the body, who withdrew himself from the body's side and walked towards the three, "he'll be helping us on this case."

William was only slightly taller than John. He hard dark brown hair, combed back (products were clearly used). He hard dark brown eyes. He smiled gently at John and Sherlock, and put his hands behind his back, leaning forward slightly. "Hello, nice to meet you all," he greeted.

Sherlock stared at him. It seemed as if he was just waiting for William to make one wrong move. He turned his attention to Sherlock, "You must be Sherlock Holmes. How absolutely great it is to meet you. I'm just a rookie detective, and I've always heard stories about you. You are truly an inspiration sir. I am absolutely pleased to be working with you on this case."

Sherlock nodded, "I see." He ignored William's flattery, and approached the body.

William sighed with a smile on his face. John looked at William. "Don't worry about him," John said quietly to William, "he mostly likes to work alone."

"Oh, are you Dr. Watson?" William asked, seeming suddenly interested in John's identity.

"Well, yes, I am," John replied with a smile.

"So he works with you. Are you two—"

"Just friends. Colleagues."

William nodded slowly. "Well alright, it's very nice to meet the both of you."

Sherlock knelt next to the body on the carpet. He looked at her. The ligature marks he had seen on the other two victims were once again on her ankles and wrists also, but one was on her neck. Her clothes had also been removed, but paramedics and investigators covered her body with a light sheet. There was a small cut next to her lip, and her teeth were stained from blood.

Sherlock glanced over at John and William, who were exchanging words, then back to the body. He stood up and walked over to Lestrade. "Another strangled."

Lestrade crossed his arms and tongued the corner of his mouth. "We can't find any DNA evidence from any of the scenes. Since there's no sexual assault, we can't find DNA samples from that. We also can't find weapons at all. Though it's probably a knife."

Sherlock let out a slow, drawn out sigh. He heard a meow. He turned his head. A box of free kittens was left beside the door. Of course someone would do that. Outside a crime scene where people would pass by, eager to hopefully catch a glance of what had gone wrong.

"The ligature marks are severe. He's tying them into painful positions. Possibly hog tie."

Lestrade grimaced.

xXx

John approached the entrance of 221 Baker Street with a bag in his hand. He had parted ways with Sherlock after they visited the crime scene to grab some toiletries (shaving cream, after shave, tooth paste, etc.) while Sherlock gathered information and tried to think. It wasn't a bad thing to leave Sherlock alone for a moment. He'd be able to think without being annoyed of anyone's presence.

John opened up the door to the upstairs, and it was no surprise to see Sherlock standing in front of the wall with all his information tacked and taped on it.

"Hello!" John chirped, as he turned and closed the door quietly behind him. He turned and smiled as he continued, "How has all the thinking been treating you. Hopefully you have fig—"

John was interrupted. It would usually be Sherlock that interrupted him, but this time it wasn't. It was something else. A soft sound that was almost inaudible. John was quiet. He wasn't quite sure what he had heard, and he stayed silent hoping for another hint of sound. He glanced over at Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to have not heard it.

"Did you hear that?" John asked, quietly and curiously.

"Hear what?" Sherlock turned around, looking John right in the eyes.

"I thought I heard a—"

He was interrupted again, this time as clear as day. A meow from a kitten. John jumped a little, he was startled. This was a sound he did not expect to hear. Sherlock saw the alarm in John, and slowly approached him.

A gray, petite, fluffy kitten turned the corner from Sherlock's room and made its way towards Sherlock and John. It had white around the eyes, the nose and mouth, and its eyes were blue. It meowed again. John, although in shock, managed to ask, "Sherlock what is this?"

Sherlock walked over to the kitten and gently scooped it up. "A cat."

"Nonononono. No. No. _Noooooo_. We cannot have a cat here, we cannot!" John spat.

"I don't see why not," Sherlock insisted, casting his bright eyes at John. "He was the last on left in the box. Nobody ever takes the last one."

John was quiet, and watched Sherlock gently stoke the kitten under its chin. Did Sherlock actually show sympathy towards something? John shook his head and bit his lip. He couldn't deny that kitten a home, and he most definitely didn't want to deny Sherlock that kitten. Besides, John thought of it as an apology from the previous day, although he wasn't the one to present the apology.

"What did you name him?" John asked, managing a smile.

"Martin. I thought it a rather fitting name," Sherlock let the kitten back down to the floor, and it let out a quiet meow as it left the two to explore. "Dinner?"

John stared at Sherlock's face a moment. He mostly found himself looking at Sherlock's lips. He closed his eyes, hard and only for a moment. He nodded, "Yeah, dinner would be nice."

xXx

The two walked side by side. The sky was gray, and beginning to get dark from the clouds, and there was a soft wind that nipped at their faces, and caused their hair to dance.

"I can't believe you brought a cat home," John laughed, "things are never dull with you around."

Sherlock grinned. A raindrop hit the tip of John's nose.

"Oh!" John exclaimed. One drop turned into two, four, seven. "Rain! We should quick get a taxi."

"It's fine, John, I've got an umbrella," Sherlock opened the umbrella swiftly and held it over John's head.

John felt a smile coming on at Sherlock's thoughtfulness, but tried to hide it. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead. He was squinting, and John noticed something else: he was getting soaked from the rain. He held the umbrella over John to prevent him from getting wet, and was willing to take the rain instead.

"Sherlock you'll get sick!" John shook his head.

"No, don't worry about it John, let's just keep going."

And without another word being said, they continued on to their favorite place to eat.


End file.
